


Stevie B - Drabbles and also Ficlets

by livid



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gender Dysphoria, Non-Binary Steve Rogers, Other, Period Typical Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:34:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2668886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livid/pseuds/livid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of drabbles and ficlets about Stevie Barnes, née Rogers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sure footed dance hall dame (23)

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't heavy on the gender dysphoria, but it made me pretty uncomfortable to write it, so be prepared, I guess, if that's a problem for you

When the nurse comes back, finally, there's a sad look about her, a tightness at the edge of her mouth. Steve is used to this. He has become well acquainted with this expression.  
  
(Something small and angry stirs in him at the sight of it, smothered quickly by resignation. )  
  
The only reason he's really here is cause Buck's been so worked up since Steve's Ma died, hounding him to get checked on for every little thing. It's burning a hole through their rent money, but Steve draws the line at getting physically manhandled into a surgery, which he knows from experience Buck will absolutely do.  
  
The nurse looks him up and down, and that's not new either. She'd done the same thing last week, when he'd come in the first time, and then handed him that tiny glass jar, which had been an effort and a half to pee into. He'd had to thoroughly scrub his hands after, which wasn't great when they were so dry and cracked already.  
  
"Stephanie," the nurse starts -  
  
"Steve," he corrects, and the nurse huffs a little, in something like fear and exasperation.  
  
"Steve," she says, and that tone of voice isn't new either. Something low coils in Steve's gut. Anger and something flat and twisting. He should be used to that too, 'specially in the hospital. "Says in your file that Doctor Kelk gave you some pretty clear instructions on prophylactics a couple of years back when you and Jimmy got hitched."  
  
Steve swallows, mouth suddenly going dry. Of course he had suspected, it had _occurred_ to him, but-  
  
( _How the hell did Bucky know this lady?_ he thinks, uselessly. _One of his sure footed dance hall dames?_ )  
  
"You been following the Doctor's advice?"  
  
Steve is suddenly very aware of his heartbeat, the clamminess of his hands. "Not exactly."  
  
The nurse sighs, and Steve feels sick.  
  
This is a hell of a lot worse than a virus.  
  
"I don't uh," he starts, head spinning with his blood pressure and the wrongness of what he's gotta say. He swallows again, thickly. "I don't exactly get my rags that often. Or heavy, when I do."  
  
The nurse rolls her eyes at his crassness, but there's pity there, too.  
  
"Just cause it don't all work right, doesn't meant it don't work at all," she says softly, and Steve has an intense sense memory of hearing his Ma say the same words to a dozen scared looking girls, sitting rigid in their kitchen.  
  
There's a stretched awkward silence, as the nurse scratches something out on a piece of paper, and Steve panics in his chair. His mind is running a million miles an hour, but keeps circling back to little Sadie Thompson, who had lived down the road, and been put in the ground last month after she went to see a man about a problem and didn't make it back again.  
  
The nurse places the folded piece of paper in his hand. He looks down at the names and addresses.  
  
"My advice," the nurse tells him, quiet, sympathetic. "Don't tell your boy."


	2. job hunting (16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve does not have a job, which wouldn't be much of a problem if he hadn't just spent the last three weeks in the hospital, and if the economy wasn't dead and rotting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for transphobia/queerphobia and general shittiness, mentions of gender and sexuality based violence, canon typical violence

Steve slams into a wall and feels his teeth rattle.

His feet are heavy and his mouth is bloody and his shirt is covered in soot and grime. Al Savage has a mean face and a mean right hook.

Steve Rogers does not back down from a fight.

 

* * *

 

 

There's a lull in the middle of the afternoon where the streets empty out some, and Steve can walk past the Masonic Temple without feeling like he's painted with a bullseye. Brooklyn never really gets quiet, or still, but at about two-thirty in the afternoon on a Saturday the kind of fellas that don't bear dealing with are usually safe at work and the streets breathe a little less tightly.

Unlike those foul, unpleasant folk, Steve does not have a job, which wouldn't be much of a problem if he hadn't just spent the last three weeks in the hospital, and if the economy wasn't dead and rotting.

It also wouldn't be much of a problem if it weren't so near to Christmas and if his Ma's shoes weren't worn straight through,  toes peeking out of the corners and the rubber. She'd eaten through the last few pay packets trying to keep a fire lit and Steve from tumbling face first into a fatal bout of pneumonia. She'd succeeded in that he hadn't died, but now he's got this nagging worry that the cold'll take her too, and working in a hospital means she's exposed to all kinds of ailments Steve can't even begin to fathom.

Bucky keeps trying to get him to draw eight papers and comics, but Steve knows it's a waste of time. He hasn't even seen a naked lady since he was in form school and he's not nearly good enough besides. Still working on proportions, getting light to sit just right on the planes of the body.

So instead he spends his weekend walking around down town, inquiring in every shop front and ignoring the burn in his belly. The dull ache at the base of his spine. Standing all day in a factory or in a store will be the worst kind of agony, but he figures - he doesn't have a choice. He's not going to be a burden.

He can't draw eight papers and he can't smile like Bucky, can't charm his way into a job - any job - but he's good with numbers and he's honest, hardworking the way his Ma raised him.

Needless to say - when there ain't work there ain't work, so in the end it's a complete and utter disaster.

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about Steve Rogers, and it _does_ bear mentioning, is that he's A Little Different.

(That's a lie, and those are his Ma's words, but the right kind of euphemisms ain't right at all.)

Steve is A Little Different.

The thing about Steve Rogers is that he was born early and squalling and blue in the lips, and he was born with a chip on his shoulder.

Bucky likes to make it out, whenever they get caught up in fist fights and have to explain to his Ma, like Steve was some helpless victim who got caught up in some terrible shit. Steve doesn't know why he bothers, and sometimes he thinks Bucky doesn't either.

If ever there was a cannier lady than Sarah Rogers, none of them have met her.

Bucky likes to make it out like Steve's some helpless damsel but they all know it's a lie.

And it's not like - there are stories all the time about poor queer kids who get beat to death in alleyways - grown men and women and - people like Steve. It's not like it doesn't happen. But it's never happened to him.

Not yet, anyway.

The gods honest truth is that Steve is a filthy brawler. He's lit with the fire of righteous rage and there is deep satisfaction in knowing that if you can't make someone do the right thing you can sure as hell make them bleed for it.  

It's just - the bruising is not exactly conducive to steady employment.

That, and all the other things.

 

* * *

 

 

Mr. Wilborough, the Realtor, won't even let him through the door. His eyes are wide behind the pane of glass and Steve figures it's the black eye that does it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Old Mrs. Mackenzie's son takes one look at him from behind the baker's counter, and lets out a muffled chuckle.

"No chance, pal. No chance."

 

* * *

 

 

O'Malley of the O'Malley Bros. grocer is as close to a giving man as you get in this kind of neighbourhood, where people are pretty loose in their interpretation of Christian values. (Bucky's Ma blames it on the too-young pastor and the Polish, but she's not known much for her compassionate heart.)

He's fair in his prices and he'll give away the spoiling food for nothing (unlike _some_ unscrupulous vendors), give you work and treat you fair, as long as you don't try to screw him.

Steve's done work for him before, when his Ma went down with influenza and he was sure that she would die. Stacked shelves and fruit and never once complained about the weak floorboards or the lingering putrid stench.

"I'm sorry, Stevie," he says, leaning heavy on his broomstick. "There isn't much that I can do."

Which is probably true. He gave a job to Becca last month hauling crates around even though she's only twelve, and it's not exactly the growing season. Steve doubts he's breaking even.

Steve smiles, like he's not half our of his mind with pain and boredom, like he has enough money to eat. No use leaving the old man feeling guilty.

"Listen," O'Malley says as Steve turns to go, a heavy tilt to his brow. "She's not exactly advertising but Mrs. Liu is looking for an apprentice. Asked after my girls but none of them have a lick of patience between them. Tell her I sent you, but maybe dress up a bit first, try and make a good impression. Show her your drawings. She wants a steady hand."

Steve stiffens, which just makes his hip joint spark in protest and his stomach roil hot. "Thanks for the suggestion, sir, but I don't think I meet the criteria."

"Steady work in being a seamstress," O'Malley says, firm, "your Ma'd thank you for staying out of the cold," and Steve feels like he could punch him.

"'M sure there is, and m'sure she would," he smiles, sharp, "but I ain't really a dame, which I'm pretty sure is a fundamental requirement."

His breath is short when he storms out, and he guesses Bucky'd be proud that he didn't swing at an old man, but he doesn't feel very vindicated when O'Malley calls out from behind him, "You're not calling the shots, Rogers, _God is_ , and we all take whatever we are given!"

So if he kicks a couple of trash cans, so what? It's not like he meant all that garbage to end up on O'Malley's stoop.

Call it Grace, whatever.

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about Steve is, he never really has to look for fights. Bucky never believes him, and his Ma has enough of a sense of him not to bother asking, but - he doesn't ever have to _look_ , these things find him if the mood is right or - otherwise.

 

* * *

Steve slams into a wall and feels his teeth rattle.

He balls his hands into fists, the pain bright and glaring beneath the clench-pull of his grinding molars.

 

* * *

 

 

The sky is a dark and smoggy pink by the time Bucky interrupts his lighting, casting a dark shadow against the page of his sketchbook. He's pink cheeked and round faced under the brim of his hat, pale against the charcoal of his peacoat and the sooty brickwork all around. The street is full and cold and Steve is pushed up against the stoop of his apartment block, leaning his bruisehot shoulder into the cool plaster balustrade.

Buck's brows are knitted, and he's chewing his lip, and Steve feels guilt like a weight on his shoulders.

'C'mon," Bucky huffs, pulling his scarf off rigidly and stuffing it into the collar of Steve's coat. "My Ma's making potato cakes again and she can't estimate portions for shit."

"Buck -" Steve starts, but the glare he gets is withering, and the caustic pull in his belly is a highly motivating silencer.

"One of the guys at the factory says his brother is looking for a kitchen hand in some dodgy joint near Prospect where they're serving those tent town folks. Not secure but he _assures_ me that it pays well. Or at least, better than the nothing you're currently pulling."

"When you say dodgy-"

"Ain't a lot of legal trade happening on their premises, lotta things you might hesitate to class as trade."

"Not exactly worried about breaking the law these days."

"Good," Bucky huffs, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. "You still thinking about going to art school?"              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumbs](http://www.li-v-id.tumblr.com)  
>  the entire point of this fic was imagining kinda short kinda chubby 15yo sebstan with ruddy cheeks and a flatcap  
> also, y'know, working through a block on the longer companion fic


End file.
